“O, that it were to the day of my own death,” exclaimed Elizabeth with fervency. “There are few persons to whom my heart earnestly inclines, and I would have them with me through this life, and all eternity.”
“My dear sister, these things are not at our disposal. But let us consider the subject: every night we experience temporary dissolution: and then we are separated, even as if the hand of death had smitten us; when we go to rest, we have no positive assurance that we are to open our eyes again upon the objects of this world; still we project schemes; calculate upon probable and improbable events; but the entire suspension of our faculties is never taken into the account. Yet we are ignorant whether we are to open our eyes on the objects of this world, or that which is to come. I own I have not any desponding thoughts; I rest alone upon the mercies and the merits of a suffering and a redeeming Saviour; he is my sole refuge. To our mother, my conscience acquits me either of intentional errors, or errors of omission. This is a source of the purest consolation; it clears the rough, the thorny path to the valley of death. Elizabeth, my dearest sister, listen to me before I go hence, and be no more seen. Every night recall to mind the actions of the day. Let this be the question you put to yourself: “Have I done my duty in all things?” Where you have failed, let the morning sun, as it rises, be a token to you that another day is given for wise and good purposes; in the grave there is no remembrance of error, no atonement to be made for transgression, for neglect of the social duties of life.”
Elizabeth gazed at her sister with feelings of tenderness and sorrow.
“All things pass away,” said Jane, as she raised her eyes to her sister’s agitated face; “but ‘when this mortal has put on immortality,’ then Elizabeth, when we meet again, it will not be for transient days, and years, but for ages of eternity.”
Exhausted with speaking so long, she pointed to the book upon the table. “The spirit is willing,” said she, faintly, “but my voice is weak; will you oblige me, sister?”
“From my heart I will,” exclaimed Elizabeth; “would that I could not only oblige, but retain you for our comfort, for this world to my mother will be a wilderness indeed.”
“Not so,” said Jane, tears flowing into her eyes; “my affectionate, my warm-hearted sister will be my substitute! O, Elizabeth, friend dearest to me, may you be blessed where your heart is fixed.”
Elizabeth started, and her countenance became pale as death.
“Sister,” Jane slowly added, “you could not keep the secret from me; I have traced it in all your actions; but, rest assured, it will descend with me to the grave.”